


Addicted

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Burnplay, Collars, Come Swallowing, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Addiction, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Knives, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Musicians, No Aftercare, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sadism, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5969674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But by then Irie was overcommitted, years down a path that only led down, and without the means to turn time back to his high school self the only way out was to move forward and hope for the best." Mistakes put musician Irie's life on a downward spiral and drop him into Byakuran's lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addicted

Irie never intended his life to turn out like this.

There were a lot of things he didn’t intend. He’s sure this is true for most people -- accidents happen, dreams crumble under the weight of reality -- but looking back over his life he feels certain that the nature of his accidents have led him to exclusively worse results than the alternative. Take pursuing music. It seemed innocuous enough initially, back when he was in high school and choosing a career path was as easy as writing a sentence on a piece of paper. But that sentence had turned into hours spent at after-school band practice instead of studying, had resulted in acceptance into his last-resort university rather than his first choice, and by the time he graduated it had become clear even to him that all the desire in the world couldn’t make up for his lack of the talent he could see in his classmates, the ones gifted with the spark that could bring a room to silence with the thrum of a string, with the press of a key. But by then he was overcommitted, years along a path that only led down, and without the means to turn time back to his high school self the only way out was to move forward and hope for the best.

The best never came. The high points were the rare occasions Irie would get hired for a show, to play for a night or two to a roomful of people too drunk to know what instrument he had under his fingers. But they gave him money, at least, the means to pay his rent and enough for food for another few weeks, and after a few months that came to be the best he hoped for. Under the circumstances an addiction was the last thing he could afford, financially as much as psychologically, but when he started hearing whispers about a new drug -- “Funeral Wreath,” and the name should have been a tip-off if nothing else -- he listened and told himself it was from worn-out curiosity instead of any true intent, told himself the whispers would die down as the drug ran its course and left a few exhausted addicts in its wake.

They never did quiet. The whispers got louder instead, hissing, curling into the corners of every show Irie played until it was like he was fighting with the name itself for attention, until people were more interested in the rumor of a drug than they were in the present music he was offering. _Creativity_ , the voices murmured, _euphoria_ , and the artists were worse: _I wrote for days_ , one author promised, _I composed a hit single overnight_ , a pop star laughed, and Irie kept playing and kept listening and felt the curl of misery low in his stomach turn into jealousy, turn into desperation, invert on itself and come out the other side into: determination, cold and harsh and running in his veins like ice enough to overwhelm the warm comfort of self-preservation.

It was something like suicide, Irie thinks, when he finally locked the door to his dingy apartment and unfolded his white-knuckled grip from the foil-sealed pill against his palm. He remembers now how his heart was pounding in his chest, how his skin was so slick with sweat he couldn’t maneuver the package open for long, awkward seconds. Irie pressed the sugary-sweet of the pill to his tongue convinced it was poison, more than half-ready for the drug to grip his body and shake the life out of him until he was left sprawled in a testament to failure to be found after however long it took someone to notice he was gone.

What he wasn’t ready for was the high.

Irie had tried drugs before, various concoctions handed around at the very few college parties he attended and occasionally offered in the worst of the locales he played at. Usually they left him dizzy, detached from reality and more than half-panicked about his existence in the world itself. Wreath was different. It was a rush, a surge of heat through his veins he felt like fire had touched him directly, like lightning was coursing through his body and leaving him glowing like the sun instead of the burnt-out husk he more usually felt. He could do anything, be anyone, past and present and future were all his to take and use and alter at will, his existence was something as malleable as the characterization of a story, something he could change with a whim.

It lasted all night. By the time the hum of power started to wear off the sun was rising, casting the sky into pink and purple as if to welcome Irie to this newest chapter of his existence. Irie had stood at his smudged window, watching the color of dawn spill over the sky in streamers of light catching at the clouds, had waited until the bright of the sun crept over the treetops to cast the world into white; and then he had shut his blinds, and stumbled in the direction of his bed. He didn’t make it there -- unconsciousness caught him somewhere en route, left him to wake hours later muddled and confused and half-dressed on the floor -- but when he woke the effects of the drug lingered in the form of notes over every inch of his sheet music and a week’s worth of work lined up in the span of one night’s calls. It was enough, Irie told himself, the advantage gained enough to pull him out of the rut that he’d been digging himself into deeper with every passing year, and he told himself that all he had needed was a one-time push.

It wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. A week’s worth of work left him with more money than he’d had at one time for years, and the notes on his music left him aching to be the person he had been again, just for a day, just for a few hours, just to remember how it felt to be someone he was proud of being. And Wreath wasn’t that expensive, not really, even if he bought four times his first dose the second time so he could keep himself above water for the next few months. Never mind that the gap between his second dose and his third was less than half the span between his first and second, never mind that the fourth and fifth were on consecutive nights when he was in what he was sure was the worst depression of his life; what mattered was the way he felt alive, the way even breathing became easier when he had the slick-sweet of the drug clinging to his tongue and coating the back of his throat.

Addiction followed fast. Irie ran through his first contact, burnt through all the supply his second dealer had to offer; by the time he was six months in his dealer had stopped answering his calls to save them both the hassle of him telling Irie he doesn’t have any more to offer. Irie was left to tremble through the first edge of withdrawals, to suffer the jittery anxiety that came in ever-increasing waves until he felt like he was going to drown in it and was forced to take another of his ever-dwindling supply of Wreath; it was like a game he played with himself, except there was no way for his mind to win over his body, and there was no pleasure in the competition, just the weight of inevitable loss hanging over him.

It’s in the middle of one of his periods of desperate resistance that he gets the call.

“Is this Irie Shoichi?” is the first question, Irie’s name pronounced with none of the stumbling unfamiliarity that he so often hears from telemarketers. That alone would be enough to give him pause, even without the arresting slur of the voice itself, like sugar melted to caramel and shaped into sound so it can slide down the phone lines and to Irie’s ear.

“Yes,” Irie had said, fixed so still by uncertainty that he forgets even the ache in his veins for a moment, misplaces the awareness of his own grating addiction for the span of a few startled heartbeats. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” and it’s a laugh, a high, bright thing that sends a shiver of nameless foreboding all the way down Irie’s spine. It’s as if someone had slid ice down his shirt or trailed a finger against the back of his neck when he thought he was alone; it’s enough to make him turn, to stare wide-eyed and pointlessly panicked at the empty of his apartment while the stranger goes on speaking. “I understand you’ve been in communication with one of my assistants.”

“I don’t--” Irie starts, but the voice talks over him, cutting off his shaky protest with the level calm of absolute certainty: “You probably know him as Genkishi” and Irie’s words die on his lips, the awareness of his withdrawals coming back at the mention of his dealer as if he’s been abruptly reminded of the feel of his own tongue in his mouth.

“He tells me you’ve become quite demanding,” the voice goes on, and Irie is shivering bodily now, uncertain if it’s the thought of Wreath in his veins or the purring threat under that tone that has so gripped him. “He says he can’t keep supplying you with what it is you want.”

“But,” Irie hears himself say, his lips going cold as ice on the threat of removal under the stranger’s words. “But I _need_ it.”

A laugh, high and breathless and so cotton-candy sweet even the sound of it turns Irie’s stomach as if with poison. “Everyone _needs_ it” and it’s a taunt, the voice is wrapping itself around the cadence of Irie’s speech in a mocking imitation that Irie would find insulting if he weren’t so white-knuckled desperate on his phone. “The real question is, what are you willing to give?”

“Anything,” Irie’s throat says for him, the word dragging raw out of his chest before it’s spent the least time checking in with his rational brain. “I’ll pay anything, I’ll give you all I have.”

“You already owe Genkishi more than you ought,” the voice purrs at Irie. “‘All you have’ isn’t going to stretch very far, if your debt is any indication.”

“I’ll give you anything,” Irie repeats, and there’s the pressure of tears at the back of his throat, desperation curdling his voice into the shape of a sob at the back of his mouth. His hands are shaking, his body curling in on itself as if he can somehow press the addiction out from his veins by force, but when he thinks of what he has left, the all-too-few doses that he’ll need to take sooner rather than later, the thought of running out is like facing down an oblivion like death rushing towards him over a gap of weeks, over maybe only a few days. It’s the anxiety that makes him desperate, that forces a frantic calculation from the intelligence that has never done Irie any good before. He considers the conversation, and the phone call, and concludes that there must be some purpose for this, must be some motive for that saccharine voice humming almost-a-laugh down the phone line.

“Anything,” Irie repeats, and then, the words falling easy, with no sense of the weight they carry: “What do you want?”

The laugh is sudden, so loud and bright it makes Irie jump, startles all the tight-wound adrenaline in him into a jolt, and the cold comes after, the shiver of premonition that hisses _danger_ when Irie’s already tumbled over the edge of his last cliff.

“Oh, Sho-chan,” the voice purrs at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Irie thought he knew what he had done. That voice chilled him down to his bones, but selling himself for the sake of more Wreath didn’t seem as extreme as it once did, not when the reality of living without the high was so impossible to fathom. It seemed like an easy enough thing to go to the address the stranger -- Byakuran was the name he gave just before he hung up -- provided to him. There’s the hot slick of shame in Irie’s veins when he goes, the unpleasant awareness that he’s willing to trade away his body so easily in pursuit of more of the drug he’s come to rely so heavily on, but it’s not enough to stop him from going, not enough to stop the tremor of addicted desire in his hands when he knocks on the ordinary front door.

Byakuran is beautiful. It’s the first thing Irie thinks when the door comes open to reveal a young man so slender he looks barely tethered to the ground and with a mess of pale hair like a halo around sharp features. There’s a weird kind of relief to knowing that at least he’s physically attractive, until by the time Irie takes the offer to “Come in, Sho-chan” he feels almost calm about what’s about to happen.

His calm doesn’t last the visit.

Irie expected sex. It’s straightforward enough, even if the sight of Byakuran’s appearance raises the immediate question of why such a man would need to bother with addicts-turned-whores in the first place; Irie would have slept with him just for the asking, if they had met on the street sometime before his whole world narrowed down to the brights of the highs and the shadows between doses. Irie thought maybe kinks were involved, something particularly unusual that Byakuran didn’t want to admit to someone not entirely under his control, and he arrived braced for that, mentally prepared for the filthiest things his imagination could conjure.

Byakuran’s worse. The first day he ties Irie face-down to the bed, arms and legs bound to the bedposts until Irie can feel the ache against his shoulders, and then he _talks_ , detailing the process of branding patterns into skin and cutting flesh from bone, purring over how beautiful Irie’s voice would sound screaming in agony under the press of needles or of knives. Irie’s sweating within ten minutes, anxiety breaking chill damp across all his skin as he waits for the pain, for the heat or the knife or the dig of teeth, for any one of the suggestions Byakuran slurs into the air to become reality. And Byakuran doesn’t touch him, just leaves Irie to shiver through anticipated horrors for an hour before he unties him, and hands him a dose of Wreath, and tells him to come back in two days’ time.

Irie is braced for it the second time. He’s very sure that Byakuran is insane but he remains unclear on the actual depth of the madness; is it a too-vivid imagination, perhaps, something limited to dreams and fantasy, or is he actually going to take a knife to Irie’s skin and carve his name across the other’s thigh as he talked of doing? Irie doesn’t want to go back, doesn’t want to voluntarily put himself in that much danger again; but Genkishi won’t answer his calls, and he can’t sleep for how badly his body is trembling, and two days later he’s back at Byakuran’s door, hollow-eyed and shaking so helplessly he can barely speak when Byakuran smiles and ushers him in. He’s expecting the knots, expecting maybe the kiss of a knife this time or the rough press of fingers into bruises against his skin; but Byakuran leads him to the living room this time instead of to the bed, and when he touches Irie it’s to urge him back against the support of Byakuran’s chest as he presses the familiar weight of a dose of Wreath against Irie’s lips. Irie opens his mouth to the suggestion, licks the powder left clinging to Byakuran’s skin away with desperation coiling raw and vicious under his skin, and when the pleasure hits it’s with Byakuran’s arms around him and Byakuran’s voice purring comfort in his ear. Irie doesn’t leave for hours, that time, and Byakuran never makes the least indication of wanting more; he just holds him, the gesture as casually intimate as if they had known each other a lifetime instead of three days.

And so it goes. The third time Byakuran all but ignores Irie, tells him to sit in the living room and read something and proceeds to live his life around the other, barely glancing at him until some ninety minutes have passed and he tosses a handful of Wreath into Irie’s lap and leaves him to find his uncertain way to the door. The fourth time comes the sex that Irie was braced for on his initial visit; Byakuran’s fingers are deft in working him open, his actions efficient and thorough at once, and he fucks Irie like it’s his job, shoving the other back across the sheets until Irie comes to the glancing touch of Byakuran’s fingers at his cock, without anything more than a suggestion of friction. He’s not even sure Byakuran comes at all, although the slick that lingers at the inside of his thighs afterwards indicates he did; he can’t remember a moment of the other’s composure breaking, even in the middle of his own shuddering orgasm. It’s not until one of the later visits that Byakuran uses the promised knives, trailing lines of crimson over Irie’s collarbones and against the curve of his ribs, but by then Irie doesn’t care; Byakuran greeted him with a kiss, that day, the acidic tang of Wreath hot on his tongue as he licked the drug over Irie’s tongue and down his throat, and Irie’s too lost to the quivering ecstasy of satisfaction to feel the pain as anything but a counterpoint to the pleasure turning him radiant. Byakuran smiles, that time; Irie remembers the sharp points of his expression later, when he’s at home and sober and hissing through bandaging the cuts that cross-hatch all the edges of bone that lie under his skin. Byakuran had laughed, when Irie moaned, and had thrust into him with a shuddering gasp of appreciation in his throat, and when he came it had been with Irie’s name on his lips, hot like the fire Irie had been at the time.

Irie can never predict what Byakuran will want on any given day; his moods are as changeable as the wind, his interest catching for a moment and then flickering away before Irie can adjust to it. Sometimes he’ll hand Irie a week’s worth of Wreath at the door and slam it in his face; sometimes he’ll have dinner ready and waiting, will treat Irie as if he’s some beloved boyfriend to be doted upon and adored. More often than not he gives Irie a dose during his visit, either pressing it over his tongue with those too-dexterous fingers or letting Irie lap it off the edge of a knife while he has the slick weight of Byakuran’s cock moving inside him. There’s pain sometimes: the edge of a knife, the weight of ropes, the hissing agony of a candlewax burn. But there’s pleasure more often, the relief of sating the addiction the greatest but coupled with the purr of Byakuran’s voice in Irie’s ear, or the all-over shuddering relief of an orgasm held back too long, or the simple comfort of companionship, of Byakuran’s arms around Irie’s chest while they watch a movie as if their relationship were built on something infinitely more mundane than what it is.

Irie begins to see the danger after the first month. He has Wreath enough, now, saved from Byakuran’s more generous days to tide him over the cold spells of the other’s fancy. It’s in the middle of one of those periods alone that he caves to the urge, indulges in the weight of a pill on his tongue and braces for the inevitable relief that comes with it. It’s true that his perpetual migraine eases, true that his hands stop shaking with want, but the distracting ecstasy eludes him, lingers untouched in his memory rather than manifesting into reality. Irie takes another dose, just to be sure it’s working the way it should, and he doesn’t sleep for four days in a row but he still doesn’t achieve the euphoria he attains when he’s with Byakuran. A week later Byakuran summons him back. Irie goes, trembling with horrified anticipation as much as anything else, and lets Byakuran fit a collar and a leash on him and shove Irie down to his knees so Byakuran can fuck against the tremor in his throat. Irie can’t taste anything but the bitter salt of Byakuran’s cock in his mouth, can’t breathe for the way Byakuran keeps dragging rough at the leash, and then Byakuran presses a dose of Wreath in against the corner of his wide-open mouth and Irie can feel the pleasure hit him before the drug does, his whole body going instantly hot as if his veins have burst into flame. He groans, a broken-open, helpless noise around Byakuran’s cock, and when Byakuran slides his foot in to bump his ankle against the front of Irie’s jeans Irie spasms into orgasm with no more friction than that. He’s still shaking with pleasure when Byakuran drags his head back by his hair and thrusts into his mouth so hard Irie’s head slams against the wall with each movement, and when Byakuran purrs and spills hot over Irie’s tongue and down his throat Irie thinks he’s never seen him look so happy.

Irie keeps coming. There’s no other option for him, not now that he’s in so deep; he’s not sure what Byakuran would do if he tried to tell the other no, and it’s only half fear of the other’s reaction that keeps him from making the attempt. The other half (and maybe it’s more than half, when it comes down to it) is that Irie isn’t sure he’ll be able to force the sounds out of his throat, is more afraid to find himself betrayed by his own body than he is of anything else. So he keeps coming, stands on Byakuran’s doorstep with submission implicit in his arrival and explicit in everything else he does, and when Byakuran’s hand lands at the back of his neck to steer him down the hall it fits against Irie’s spine like it belongs there.

Irie’s shaking, now, folded over the end of Byakuran’s bed with his weight barely supported on the tremble of his braced-out arms. Wreath is bitter on his tongue and singing in his veins; Irie can hear the threads of music in the air, can hear melodies he would chase if he could, would pin to paper with the tethers of notes if his hands were free. But Byakuran’s hand is at his hip, and Byakuran’s fingers are stroking over his cock, and Irie can’t do anything but tremble through the jolting sensation and watch the music flutter across his vision and away to dissolve into the steam hanging heavy in the air and clinging to his skin.

“Again,” Byakuran is saying, and his fingers are tightening, his wrist is twisting to wring another shudder of friction up Irie’s spine. “Again, Sho-chan, come for me one more time.”

“I can’t,” Irie sobs, locking his elbows out in a futile attempt to hold himself still against the bed. “I can’t, there’s nothing left, Byakuran, I’m.”

“You can,” Byakuran soothes. “I’m telling you you can, Sho-chan, listen to me.” He sounds tender, sounds almost doting, but there’s the steel edge of a scalpel under his voice, the promise of danger so sincere it’s not even a threat anymore. Irie whimpers, lets his head fall forward from the support of his neck; his glasses slide against the bridge of his nose, dangle from the support of the frames over his ears so his vision goes blurred and irregular. Byakuran hums again, a counterpoint to the harmony surging through Irie’s body, and his wrist twists, his fingers urge. “Come again, Sho-chan.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Irie protests, though his hips are rocking forward, his whole body forming tiny desperate arcs of movement so he can fuck against the resistance of Byakuran’s hand. There’s an ache along his spine, the nauseating sour of overstimulation pooling in his stomach, but the thought of stopping is just as horrifying, his entire body is straining towards the satisfaction of orgasm. “I need longer, it’s only been ten minutes.”

“It’s been nearly an hour,” Byakuran tells him, and Irie’s sense of time is slurred and distorted by the drug and by too-much pleasure but he knows that, at least, for the lie it is, can hear the laugh of mockery under Byakuran’s voice. “Maybe you just need more stimulation.”

“No,” Irie groans, but Byakuran’s not listening; the hold at Irie’s hip is easing away, drawing against the inside of his thigh and tracing up to the tight of his entrance. Irie’s still slick from the first time, when he had the heat of Byakuran’s cock pushing him through his first orgasm, but Byakuran drew out of him to nurse him through the near-painful tremors of his second and Irie’s been empty since, with just the friction of the other’s touch at his cock to spike the heat in his veins into a flame. Irie chokes wordless protest as Byakuran’s fingers press against him but it doesn’t matter; Byakuran purrs over him, pushes hard against his entrance, and Irie’s body opens to the stretch of two of Byakuran’s fingers even as his head tilts back and he offers a helpless groan of reaction to the pressure. Byakuran thrusts into him all at once, efficient rather than gentle in his movements, and Irie feels the pressure of his touch a moment before the jolt of sensation tears through him to leave him as helplessly hot as if his body has become Byakuran’s in truth and not just in name.

“Here,” Byakuran says, and grinds his touch against Irie, taking half-inch thrusts with his hand to drive precisely into him while his fingers wander across the flush of the other’s aching cock. “Again, Sho-chan.”

“Byakuran,” Irie gasps, his chest straining for air, his back arching to the point of pain. “I--I--” and electricity catches into his veins, lightning sparking through him from the press of Byakuran’s fingers. His entire body convulses, the force of orgasm tearing through him to render him utterly helpless to the sensation; for a few moments he can’t see, can’t breathe, can’t feel the far extremities of his body. His head is spinning on lack of oxygen and overabundance of stimulation, and for a brief, dizzy second Irie thinks he might pass out, might fall limp and heavy into the support of Byakuran’s arms. But then he manages a breath, a heavy, gasping thing, and another, and the strain in his back is easing and the feeling is rushing back to his body and everything hurts, all his muscles wailing with a dull, bone-deep ache of absolute exhaustion.

“I guess you were right,” Byakuran purrs from over Irie’s shoulder. His fingers slide back and out of the other’s body, leave Irie shuddering at the relief from the friction as the other reaches for the cup balanced under Irie’s hips on the bed. “That was barely a few drops, Sho-chan, we’ve drained you dry.”

“Oh god,” Irie gasps, hearing the words twist into a whimper in the back of his throat. “Byakuran.”

“This is barely a mouthful, though,” Byakuran says, sounding nearly apologetic on the words. “You need more than this, don’t you think?” The hand at Irie’s cock draws away, Byakuran pulls back by a step; Irie shuts his eyes, lets his head hang down again as his hands form involuntary fists of the sheets under him. “I’ll have to help you out.”

Irie’s expecting the heat of Byakuran’s cock against him. He doesn’t need to be told what Byakuran intends; the fact that he’s become able to predict what the other will do next is something to be concerned about, he supposes, when he can muster the energy to be concerned about anything. But Byakuran is rocking forward to slide smoothly into him, and Irie was expecting the motion but not the aftershock jolts that run through his body and tighten a wave of reaction along the whole length of his spine. He jerks with the friction, whimpers something high and helpless, and Byakuran laughs behind him, presses one hand at the very base of Irie’s spine to steady the other as he fucks into him.

“Are you thirsty yet?” Byakuran asks, his voice as sugar-sweet and calm as if the rhythm of the movement rocking Irie forward against the end of the bed isn’t happening at all. “Just a little longer, Sho-chan, and it’ll be ready for you.” He takes a hard thrust, enough to press his hips flush to Irie’s, and Irie moans over the brace of his hands on the sheets, his body spasming involuntarily with too-much sensation. “Does it still feel good?” Byakuran wants to know, but Irie can’t answer, can’t breathe except in the gaps between Byakuran’s movements, in the moments of relief as Byakuran slides back in preparation for his next driving thrust forward. “I can feel you clenching around me, you feel like you’re still coming. Or does it hurt?” Byakuran’s tone says he doesn’t much care either way; in any case he’s moving faster, taking shorter, faster strokes like he’s dropping their rhythm to doubletime, speeding the pattern of the discordant notes rattling in Irie’s head. “Just a little longer,” and there, there’s an edge of breathlessness there, the only sign Irie ever gets as proof of Byakuran’s humanity. “Soon, Sho-chan, you feel so good.” Byakuran’s pressed close, his lips skimming the tangle of Irie’s hair; Irie shudders with the contact, his head turning helplessly to strain for more heat, and Byakuran laughs too-loud at his ear and pulls back, sliding the heat of his cock from Irie’s body so suddenly Irie moans with the shock of the loss. Byakuran doesn’t even acknowledge Irie’s reaction; he’s moved back from the edge of the bed, pulling the heat of his skin away from the burning flush of Irie’s so all Irie can hear is the rush of Byakuran’s breathing coming faster and the faint catch of skin-on-skin as he strokes himself to climax. There’s a hiss of an inhale, the outline of a moan, and then a sigh, relief audible under Byakuran’s voice as he comes.

Irie knows what’s next. It’s been the goal all along, the end result Byakuran told him about with a smile when he came in the front door, but still he doesn’t move right away. His arms are shaking, his body quivering with strain, and it’s not until Byakuran’s fingers close into a fist on his hair and drag him backwards that he lets the support of his hands at the bed go to stumble over the unsteady balance of his feet. His foot catches against Byakuran’s ankle, his weight tips sideways, and Byakuran shoves at his head to force Irie’s landing into bruising pain on his knees. Irie wails at the impact, at the sharp burst of agony lancing into his hips and along the curve of his spine, but Byakuran doesn’t let his hair go, and when he pulls Irie’s head arches back obediently to make a straight line of his mouth and throat.

“Open,” Byakuran tells him.

Irie blinks hard, trying to clear his vision of the haze of pain and lingering pleasure and shaky exhaustion, trying to attain something like clarity as he focuses on Byakuran’s face, on the smile clinging to the corner of his lips. “Byakuran,” he manages, hearing the name strain in his throat, hearing the note of pleading that creeps onto his tongue.

Byakuran’s smile goes tense, Byakuran’s eyes go dark. “Sho-chan,” he says, and there’s danger there, an unformed threat that rolls down Irie’s spine like thunder and whimpers horror in his throat. “ _Open your mouth_.”

Irie opens his mouth. The shadow vanishes from Byakuran’s eyes, replaced by a glow as if of sunlight, a blaze of beauty so vivid Irie wants to squint into it. “Good,” Byakuran purrs, and lifts the cup in his hand to Irie’s mouth.

Irie doesn’t have a chance to swallow. The viscous liquid spills from the lip of the cup over his tongue and down his throat in one slick path; his throat tenses at the sticky heat of the collected come, his tongue curling at the bitter salt, but when he gags it just fills the back of his mouth to spill down his throat again as soon as the tension fades. He tries to breathe, panic overriding sense, and his chest spasms as his trachea closes on liquid, as he coughs wetly against the slick coating his mouth. There’s salt on his tongue, droplets spilling from the corner of his lips and over his chin, and Byakuran is laughing, his hold on Irie’s hair loosening enough for Irie to tip his head forward and choke for air around the awful feeling of liquid in his lungs. He doesn’t realize he’s grabbed at Byakuran’s hips for support, doesn’t realize his mouth is pressed close to Byakuran’s skin until the reflexive panic fades and lets him notice the hand in his hair, lets him notice the slender fingers working through the curls and a voice from over the top of his head purring “Good, Sho-chan, wasn’t that fun?”

Irie can see pale skin past the blur of tears in his eyes and the smudge of sweat on his glasses. His entire body is shaking, exhaustion and heat and panicked adrenaline coalescing into tremors he is helpless to stop. And there’s music in his ears, a symphony hitting a desperate crescendo like nothing he’s ever heard before, like no kind of music he’s ever known in all his life, and he knows, then, that he’s lost, that there is nothing left of him that he wouldn’t give up to feel this way again.

Irie shuts his eyes before he nods his head, but the darkness doesn’t hide the agonizing, addictive beauty in Byakuran’s throat when he starts to laugh.


End file.
